


Poetry and Roses

by OverMyFreckledBody



Series: JeanMarco Week 2015 [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Awkward Crush, Crushes, Fluff, How Do I Tag, M/M, One Shot, POV Jean Kirstein, POV Marco Bott, Requited Love, Romantic Fluff, Secret Crush, Short, Short One Shot, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"To him: he's the artist I wished to have been created by, and I am mysterious swipes of color on paper.</p><p>But to me; he's the boy I see in classes, around town, everywhere. The boy I want to talk to, the boy I want to know.</p><p>And I'm a simple guy with walls that look like leather, but sting like electricity."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetry and Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Day Two of JeanMarco Week 2015  
> Prompt: Paint or Electricity
> 
> So, I did both. 
> 
>  
> 
> There's a point of view switch.

There he was again, walking through the crowds, dodging between people as he ran. Practically stepping on my toes as he whirled around some woman with a couple hotdogs, he turned away, sharp, coffee eyes sliding off my face. His expression broke, the concentration melting to fragile shock and recognition. He slowed his sprinting as he watched me through the strands of his long, black hair that somehow freed itself from his rubber band of a ponytail. Lifting a hand, he went to brush the sweat and hair from his freckles, eyes never moving, as if attempting to pin me to place. It’s not like I _could_ move anyway, not when _he_ was looking at me.

 

Him, the boy I didn’t know, but oh god did I want to.

 

I saw him everywhere; dark leather being a deep contrast to those streaks of electric blue. Ripped holes revealing hidden spots like little treasures. Bronzed hands deeply thrust into his _tight_ jeans brought out the twine bands snaking around his wrists. Tattoos that trickled down under the sleeves of his jacket, the only color on him aside from the bright slashes in his hair. That boy was the walking epitome of _sex_.

 

His eyes were like honey as they ghosted over my angles, soaking into my soul. Even when he turned swiftly away, his eyes followed the action, slowly, as if they wanted to stare at me forever, stare at that stain forever, his feet, whatever got their attention.

 

His fingers were strong, thin, but flexible things when they glided through his hair, pushing it back to its place behind his ear. They were mechanical when they curled just below his chin, picking and pulling at his lip when he was trying to focus on a test.

 

His lips were like clothes- each time I saw them I wanted them all over my skin. Untainted by color, thick and supple, perfect in a way I wanted to make known. They danced when he spoke, smiled, bit at, always moving, always enticing.

 

His smile was like a river, sometimes flowing fast onto his face, twisting and curving, but other times slow, as it built up and up on his mouth. I seemed to always find myself caught up in its current, despite never having the best view of it, or even having it directed at myself.

 

His freckles were like flowers, covering his skin like an uncontrolled field, popping up and sprinkling over his face and hands and arms in the sun. Some faded away like wilting daisies, other were strong, defined, like tall trees or desert cacti.

 

His hair was like lightning, bits of burning, crackling colors striking through his hair as if eletric, in nighttime storm, an ebony sky illuminated by bolts of neon hues. Inside the inky color held touches and tips of brilliant blues, glaring greens, vivid purples, all of differing shades, striping in his hair.

 

His tattoos were dazzling watercolor blots on his canvas of skin, the tints the same degree as his colorations as they zipped between his many freckles. Tempests were littering every inch one could fit, the flares collecting and growing together to become _roses_ , swirling around his flesh, with the simple inscription of a date, in bold cursive, settled at bottom of his pictures, of his _art_. It should have been bland, lost among the vasts above it, but the lettering only brought it all out more, stimulating the depiction.

 

It especially made me wish I could see him without his jacket more often.

 

His head snapped forward when a voice called towards him, assisting him in narrowly dodging the person he was just about to run into. It broke both of us out of our trance, or at least it broke _me_ out, since he only seemed to be staring at me, but not entirely lost in thought.

 

_Whatever._

 

I swung myself around the other way, scowl back as my expression , as per usual, and drew my arms around myself, fingernails clawing into the dried paint on the edges of my sleeves. But even as I walked away, angry and bored with the world as ever, I could not help the flutter in my chest, nor the way my limbs twisted themselves around my sides tighter, _tighter_ when I thought of lightning and roses.

 

The feelings inside of my heart, the twitches I could not suppress, were like _electricity_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he spoke, it was like poetry. The words just easily fell out of his mouth, describing and using words I would never have thought of. I've heard the way he whispers to his friends when he's excited, when his eyes light up and he draws pictures in the air. His mouth was a palette and his voice was the brush. Their ears were his paper, and it would be a lie if I said he's never drew a picture in my mind before.

 

It made me wonder what goes through his mind.

 

Especially then, when we connected eyes at the fair, through the crowd, flashy stands and plainclothes unable to separate the unison. I knew he was studying me then, picking me apart from what he knew, choosing things to give adjectives to. I could see it in the way he looked at me, like analyzing a painting.

 

In his eyes I was a work of art and the thought only inspired me more.

 

I've listened to him forever and I would only continue to. I watched the ever changing shade of colored tips of his fingers, noticing the way how one day there would be yellows in his nail bed, then days later every single nail on his left hand would have blue under it. I observed the way he would sometimes hold his pencil in the air like his favorite tool, swishing it with flicks of his wrist before he would scribble something on a piece of notebook paper.

 

He was an artist, anyone could see that from the shake in his fingers, when he would look at the time, obviously itching for his next period. Anyone could tell by the way he would help the girls with the clothes that best suit them. Anyone would know from the way he would absorb his surroundings, calculating orbs surveying each new thing in the room.

 

And I was something beautiful to him, crafted by someone yet unknown. I'd tell him who made me if he asked.

 

But if art can't speak and artists hold no relationships with the work of others, what more would we be?

 

So we continue this dance, this back and forth salsa. I stare at him, at his paint stained jeans, at the splatters at the ends of his jacket sleeves, the flecks of color in his two-toned hair. He stares at me, thinking and unraveling my soul as if I was just a tangled piece of wire.

 

If I could talk to him, cure the jitters that I always get around him, I could show him the pattern to my entanglement. I would let him take me apart, not with his eyes, but instead with his fingers, his mouth, his voice. But I can't, at least not now.

 

To him: he's the artist I wished to have been created by, and I am mysterious swipes of color on paper.

 

But to me; he's the boy I see in classes, around town, everywhere. The boy I want to talk to, the boy I want to know.

 

And I'm a simple guy with walls that look like leather, but sting like electricity.

 

**Author's Note:**

> WOW this is late because I've been VERY busy this week and the people I send these fics to first before posting were all gone as well and it's just crazy insane.
> 
> I don't know how I can even THINK to get the rest of these on time.


End file.
